New World Man
by SpringsEternal78
Summary: Three months after the Battle of New York, Steve is fighting the losing battle to adjust. But maybe an unexpected visit can help him out...


Author's note: This is the first Avengers fic I ever wrote, so even though it's a little old now, it makes sense to me that this should be my first posting. Really hope at least someone likes it; so if you do, please let me know. I'd really appreicate it. Rated T for some sadness. But nothing you can't handle.

The Captain was sitting on the edge of a stage, looking out over the deserted camp, the rain falling steadily from a thick gun-metal sky to the muddy expanse below. The whole thing was over, and everyone was gone. He couldn't remember why he'd stayed behind, all he knew was that he had, and now the only thing he could do was sit here and watch the rain obliterate their footprints from the mud. He wasn't waiting for anything. Anything he might have waited for had already come and gone. All he had was being here, and that was all that stretched ahead of him.

The chill had seeped in under his skin and he was passively, patiently tracking its progress down to his bones. He was sheltered from the worst of the rain, but the water still gathered steadily upon him and the barren stage. He felt a large drop fall from his drenched hair and roll down his face to his jaw. He listened to the ceaseless rhythm of water on earth and wondered numbly how long it would take him to go mad.

He woke somewhere warmer, and infinitely more comfortable. For the first few seconds of every day he assumed he was waking up in 1945 and wondered where he was, in this room which was paradoxically both familiar and unfamiliar, before the realisation that he was still in the future closed in around him like clouds of gas filling his already complicated world. He sat up and, leaning forward with his arms resting across his knees, let the worst of the renewed reality pass through him. It'd been months now and it still jarred. It had lessened, but would it ever go away altogether? He'd had that horribly depressing dream again. The one where he seemed to be trapped in some sort of endless purgatory, caught between two worlds.

He knew he had to try to come to terms with things and find some semblance of peace. To move on somehow. To let go. But a big part of him constricted painfully at the mere thought of trying to do so. It would be a betrayal of everyone he'd ever cared about, to push them all out of his mind and try to forget, just like the rest of the world had. He couldn't turn his back on his life as it had been, but neither could he escape his life as it had become. So he visited purgatory at night, and pretended he had left it at day.

He got up and mechanically played out his morning routine. Standing under the shower, he tried to imagine the water washing out the cold of his dream, washing away the melancholy he had honestly tried to shake with dogged perseverance over the last few months but still wasn't even close being free of. He had nightmares from time to time, about the war. About the cost and the men. Men long dead. Friends long lost. He hadn't cried once in this new world, but in his dreams he cried all the time. He noted with half-hearted bitterness that his super-soldier serum couldn't save him from that.

Out of the shower and getting dressed, he sighed at himself for being so morose this morning. He knew what always made himself feel better. He had a quick breakfast with the admittedly excellent coffee he was nothing but grateful for, then pulled on his shoes, grabbed his coat and keys and left. His apartment was at the very top of his building, bought and paid for by S.H.I.E.L.D, like everything he needed in life. He made his way down to the ground floor, nodding to the doorman as he passed through the lobby and out into the street. The sun was just coming up, and the air was light and fresh and immediately his mood lifted as it filled his lungs. He took his familiar route through the streets to the local park, and along its paths under the trees still dripping with dew until he came to where the stone tables were lined up and ready for players to come along with their boards and chess pieces.

It was early, but it made him smile to see that George was already here, sitting facing the sun, watching its juicy orange light stream through the canopy of the surrounding beeches. As he approached, George turned and a wide smile spread across his face. "Ah, Steve, good morning!"

"Good morning," he returned, coming to stand beside him, towering over George's slightly bent, seated figure. "You're out early," he commented.

"The morning beckoned," he shrugged. "Lovely, isn't it?"

"Sure is."

"What about you?"

"I'm always up this early."

"Course you are, lad," he nodded knowingly. He looked up at him, "Well since you're here, do you fancy a game? I'm waiting for Bill but he won't be here for a while."

"I'd love to," said Steve, taking a seat as George turned to face the table between them.

"How's your chess coming along?" he asked, retrieving a board from his bag and setting it out on the table.

Steve shrugged, "Getting better, although I'm still getting beat every which way from Sunday."

George grinned. "Well let's see how you fair against this tired old brain," he said, tapping his temple.

There was little to nothing old or tired about George's brain, and though Steve put up a fine campaign he still ultimately fell to the more experienced player. He'd only discovered this little corner of the park just over a month ago taking one of his long rambling walks around the city, and started playing checkers with the old fellas. About three weeks ago, Al had started teaching him chess, and assured him, in spite of his unbroken run of defeats, that he was picking it up very quickly. He felt comfortable in their company. They knew who he was and showed him great respect and a touching affection, but there was no fuss. No hassle. Just game playing and conversation. It comforted him to know that he wasn't the only one left who remembered how things used to be, and it was surprisingly easy to forget that they were old men and he was not. He couldn't quite work out which part of that was the strange bit; them being old, or him being young. But it didn't matter, and a good game of chess was the perfect way to forget just how complicated his improbably continuing existence was.

Over the next couple of hours, the tables filled up with players. When Bill arrived, Steve bowed out of chess and joined a few rounds of a card game going on at the next table and won a couple, claiming a handful of winnings. The fact that they were literally playing for peanuts was irrelevant. What mattered was that they were, as Jim called them, victory nuts.

Steve took the long way home, winding his way through the paths and streets he knew like the back of his hand, having so recently relearned their details, killing time until he came back to the glass doors of his own building and rode the lift up through its seemingly excessive number of floors to his own apartment. He made himself another coffee and took it to his desk by the window, casually studying the large leaf of paper he had taped to the central working part of the desktop which he had raised and locked into an upright tilt. The piece was about two thirds done, he guessed, with all the preliminary lines and base colours in place. The shadows were there and the tone was right, but it was time to go into the fine details, which on a piece like this would take considerable time. That was fine with him. He assembled the inks he would need, brought over a glass of water and picked up a clean paintbrush to work.

A bright star burned a path through the morning sky over the Atlantic, streaking smoothly westward. Inside the star, a man was a little concerned.

"Eleven minutes sixteen seconds of power left, sir."

Tony looked annoyed, "How far away is Stark Tower?"

"Thirteen minutes forty-nine seconds."

He huffed at the approaching cityscape on the skyline. "Alright, gimme a map of New York, I want somewhere quiet to put down."

"Quiet, sir?"

Tony looked vaguely affronted, "Yes, 'quiet', Jarvis. I don't always want to land in the middle of a crowd of adoring fans. Just find me some little coffee shop or greasy spoon or something to wait for my ride in."

"So as not to cause a stir."

He poorly smothered a smirk with an unconvincing frown, "Did I program you to be this sarcastic? I don't remember."

"You're clearly a bad influence, sir."

"And proudly so," Tony agreed. He scanned his virtual map of the city and its many little lights indicating locations fitting the description he'd asked for, until his eyes settled on something that wasn't illuminated, but nonetheless grabbed his attention. "Ah! That'll do."

Steve was little more than an hour into his work when he heard something outside, like a distant plane, followed by a thump directly above his head. He froze, his eyes on the ceiling. He held his breath, straining to hear what sounded like footsteps crossing the roof, then the faintest rattle of the roof access door handle being jiggled. There was a brief pause, then somebody knocked. He got up, dropping his brush to soak in the water, and snatched up his keys as he opened the door and exited his apartment. Leaving his door open, he jogged along the corridor and up the stairs, hearing another round of cheery knocking as he reached the top. He unlocked the door and pulled it open to reveal Tony Stark standing with his hands on his hips all dressed up in his Iron Man suit with the mask retracted and a big grin on his face. He raised as hands as though to say 'Well… Here I am!', like Steve had been expecting him.

"Mr Stark!" If he was attempting to keep the surprise from his voice at all, he'd failed miserably.

"Well remembered!" Tony commented enthusiastically, "And please, call me Tony; we saved the Earth together, it's only right. Can I come in?" Too surprised to reply verbally, Steve simply stood aside so Tony could edge his way past him down the stairs. Steve closed the roof door and followed him down. "I know I should've called but funnily enough, I don't have your number. Do you even have a phone?"

Steve followed Tony into his own flat and closed the door, tossing his keys on the hall cupboard. "Uh, I did. I kept getting calls from strangers trying to sell me things so I disconnected it."

"Ah, you're a man who likes to stay off the grid, I can respect that," Tony nodded sagely, strolling into the centre of his apartment. Steve wasn't sure what that meant and couldn't tell if he was being made fun of but he let it slide. Tony looked around. "So this is it?"

Steve glanced around, not sure what he was getting at. "Yeah."

Tony turned and gave him a look. "Captain, your apartment is making me sad." He shook his head, "I just don't have time for that." Steve stared at him, perplexed, and bristling slightly at the implication that his flat, which Tony had just invited himself into, was somehow causing him an inconvenience. Before he could even think how to respond, Tony pointed at the floor and said, "S.H.I.E.L.D paid for this, right?"

"Yes."

"And they pay for everything, all your bills, fill your bank account?"

Steve nodded, "Yeah, sure. I'm not really qualified for work in the 21st Century, or, you know, at all."

"Mm. So can I ask you something?" It looked a lot like Tony was going to ask anyway so he nodded. "Why is this place so empty?"

"Empty? This place is huge, of course it looks empty."

"No no, _my _place is huge, your place is 'comfortable' and if wasn't for that corner over there, I would swear that nobody lived here." He did a double take at the aforementioned corner where Steve's artwork was set up in progress. "Speaking of which, is that evidence that under the stars and stripes of our famed super-soldier lies the heart of a sensitive artiste?" he queried, going closer to get a look.

"No," Steve hurried after him, battling the impulse to herd him away and shield his art from prying eyes. He clenched his jaw and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Well…That's just…" He cringed as Tony peered down at the drawing and the stack of finished pictures that lay at the other end of the desk. He carefully flicked through the stack, apparently oblivious to Steve's urge to grab the back of his Iron Man suit and drag him away to a safe distance. He turned to look back over at the soldier with an aloof expression. He opened his mouth to say something scathing and said, "These are good. What's your influence? Graphic novels?" At the uncertain look on Steve's face, he clarified, "Comic books?"

"Uh, yeah. Guess the style's really out-dated though."

He looked back down at the top drawing. "For 2012? Sure. For 1945? Way ahead of its time."

Steve supressed a laugh to hear Stark sound so familiar with 40s comics when the man embodied everything that was futuristic and ultra-modern. Regardless, he was pleased, and felt much better about Tony's metallic mitts rifling through his stuff. "Thank you," he said, managing to sound gracious without letting in any hint of amusement.

Tony put the drawings back in their place and went back to looking around at the sparsely furnished apartment. "Okay, so you draw, you paint, what else? No books? I mean I prefer to do my reading on a screen but I see you as a paperback man. And there's no art, no memorabilia, no photographs although…I suppose you wouldn't have photos would you…Where's your music system? They didn't even put a tv in here! I mean, watching tv in bed is all good but why have in one room what you can have in two?"

"There's no television in there," Steve corrected him, nodding towards his bedroom. Tony turned to look at him with a very worrying expression, like he'd just been severely electrocuted or someone had slapped him with a glove. Steve geared up to either catch him if he should pass out, or run away if he should have a psychotic break and attack him like a deranged honey badger. Tony did neither. His eyelids fluttered like he was having a mild seizure then he seemed to level out.

"Are you telling me that nowhere in this apartment is there a tv?" Steve's raised eyebrows gave him the affirmative he needed and he placed a hand over his heart melodramatically. "Oh," he sighed, "I need to sit down." He reached the nearest armchair and collapsed into it.

Steve blinked. "What do I need one for?"

"_Oh!_" Tony cried out in pain, grabbing his chest.

Steve was started to tire of being made to feel so clueless. He crossed his arms. "What's the big deal? How many people have their own tvs anyway?"

Tony dropped the false heart attack and looked up at him quite seriously. "Everyone."

Steve started. "W-Really?"

Tony stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "Uh, _yeah_. It's the law."

Steve looked alarmed. "_What? _It _is? _But then why wouldn't S.H.I.E…" Tony was smiling at him. He relaxed, unimpressed. "It's not the law."

"Not right now but when I'm President it will be, and that horror you just felt, that's still appropriate."

"Please tell me you're not running for office," Steve begged with mock desperation.

"Of course not, I'm way too busy for that, but someday the people will rise up and demand I lead them to glory," he declared casually. Steve laughed and Tony play-acted offense. "Laugh when I'm in the White House. Speaking of which, do you have any coffee to offer your guest?"

Steve wasn't quite following the link between coffee and the White House but he nodded, "Uh, sure." He went into his kitchen and started making some.

"So seriously, what do you do when you're not drawing?"

Steve thought for a moment. "I work out. Go for walks. Go for drives." If his apartment made Tony feel sad, he couldn't imagine what his reaction would be if he found out he spent time playing games with old men in the park.

Tony looked genuinely sympathetic. "That's _it?_ That's what you do? You've spent how many months here? Three? And I'm guessing that every last thing in this flat, aside from the art supplies, was here when you came in."

Steve broke eye contact. He wasn't quite sure he could explain it to a man like Tony, in whose life everything moved so fast, and everything was dynamic and vital. How could he explain that he was stuck? How could he convey his paralysis in the face of this overwhelming world? He sighed, but gave it a weak shot. "I guess I can't figure out where to start."

He was expecting a dismissive and impatient reply that would make him feel pathetic for not being able to work it out on his own but was met with pensive silence. He looked up to find Tony staring into the middle distance with a thoughtful frown. "Hm," he let out after a long moment, as Steve poured the coffee. "You have a point. It is kind of like coming in at the end of a 70 year conversation and trying to guess everything that's already been said."

Steve stilled, coffee maker in hand. Slowly, he set it back down in the machine. What Tony had left out was that everyone seemed to expect him to guess with perfect accuracy. It probably wasn't the most insightful analogy that _could_ be drawn to his situation, but it was the best he'd heard and just the fact that it had come from Tony Stark of all people revealed that there was at least some basic understanding of the difficulty of his situation. Suddenly he remembered something. "Why did you come here?"

Tony glanced over, "Hm? Oh it's the suit. I did some tweaking and needed to push the limits of its power supply. I ran out just short of Stark Tower so I thought I'd drop in. I won't be under your feet long. Ten minutes max and you can go back to your…" he hesitated, "empty, empty life. Black, three sugars."

Steve faltered, milk poised over Stark's mug. He quickly put it away and spooned three sugars into the black coffee instead, then brought both coffees over to living room, handing Stark one and taking a seat on the end of the sofa. "I thought your energy supply was second to infinite."

"Close but it can only sustain so much output for so long. I've just been round the world three times. Took me all night."

"You went all the way around the Earth three times in one night?"

"Almost all the way round. I've come up about 4.5 miles short," he mumbled irritably. He changed the subject; "Heard from anyone besides me?" He snapped his fingers, "No: disconnected phone. You know you might be the last person in New York you can't reach by phone. I guess that makes you special."

"Have you? Heard from anyone?"

"Called on Bruce a couple of weeks ago. He's in the Congo, fighting the good fight."

"How is he?"

"He's great! I think pounding half of New York City, an army of alien invaders and their enormous pet eels really did him a lot of good. We should do it every week, let him work some stuff out." He sipped his hot coffee tentatively. "Mm! That's not bad," he noted, sounding surprised.

Steve nearly blurted out 'It's heaven!' but realised that might draw too much attention to the vast difference between their standards. Stark had presumably never lived on gritty coffee substitute with a consistency that bordered on porridge-like. (He assumed there'd been nothing even resembling coffee available to him when he was being held captive.) It seemed comparable to the discrepancy between their standards of décor. Stark seemed to place a disproportionate amount of importance on material possessions. Granted, this place was lacking a certain something. It was so modern, in spite of S.H.I.E.L.D's efforts to furnish it in the styles of the forties. So uncluttered and spacious. He always felt like he was rattling around in here. And he sorely missed having pictures of his friends, his comrades. How he longed to see their faces again. How he wished he'd had more photos on him when he'd gone down in the Arctic. The only photo he'd been carrying on him, badly faded with water damage, he kept in a compass stowed away in a box in a drawer next to his bed, and he couldn't bare to look at it. Sometimes he opened the drawer and sat on the floor holding that box, his thumb on the latch. But he just couldn't bring himself to open it.

The smell of coffee brought him back to the room and he could suddenly feel he was being looked at. Stark's eyes were narrowed with curiosity. "Where'd you just go?"

"Not far," he answered truthfully. He drank his coffee.

Stark's curiosity didn't seem satisfied but he didn't get the chance to pursue it as his suit chirruped and he answered his call. "Hi. I'll be right down." He hung up and took a big gulp of his coffee before rising to his feet, an action Steve copied. "My ride's here," he explained unnecessarily, making for the door. "Thanks for the coffee, and the depressing look into your private life."

Steve rolled his eyes. "It's not that bad," he lied.

Tony pinned him with another one of those looks as his hand rested on the door handle. "Yes, Cap. Yes, it is." Then he gave him a wide smile and a clap on the shoulder and opened the door. He crossed the hall and hit the lift button. "Call me when you get a real phone, we'll do lunch," he told him, stepping into the lift. He hit a button and raised a hand in farewell, turning it into a very lazy salute as the doors slid closed.

"Wait a minute!" Steve started too late. The lift was already descending. He headed back inside with two questions: first, what was Tony's number? And second, what exactly counted as a 'real' phone? He sank onto his sofa again, looking around at his flat with new eyes. It really was quite soulless wasn't it? He'd just assumed that's what modern homes were like. And he'd never had any money to really furnish a place, then being on tour and fighting, he hadn't had the opportunity to make anything of where he was staying. But though he had the time and money now, what was he supposed to do with it? This whole time was alien country to him. He was lost in its wilderness.

He finished his coffee and went back over to his desk, but looking down at his ink painting he knew he'd lost his focus on it. His watch read 10.47am. A work out could keep him busy for the next twelve or so hours if he stopped to go to the Chinese across the street at some point. Time to hit the gym.

When he made it back to his apartment at nearly two in the morning, he walked right through the living room without slowing. Swiftly and silently he cleaned his teeth, got changed, climbed into bed, switched off the light and lay on his back in the dark. So swiftly you might be led to think he was trying to keep his mind off something. Or some things. Or everything. But now he'd stopped moving, it was inevitable that things would catch up with him. They insinuated themselves into the darkness above him, surrounding the bed; lingering tauntingly between him and the ceiling he was gazing at, and slowly, gradually, began to sink towards him. It descended like an intelligent ether, coming down to pressure him into submission. He closed his eyes, but he could still feel it coming for him.

He was on his knees in the slushy snow lying in the train tracks that ran round the curve of a mountainside. The slopes either side of the ravine were thick with white-smothered pine trees which he could just make out through the serenely falling snowflakes. Everything was so deeply and utterly silent and peaceful. His hands were white with cold, just like everything else in this place. He was shivering. In the back of his mind he wondered where his team was. Were they alright? Why weren't they here with him?

He looked down at the figure in his arms, rapidly disappearing under the settling snow. Why wasn't _Bucky_ here with him? Where did you go when this happened to you? Was it snowing there? The spreading layer of glittering white was mercifully covering up the scarlet mess underneath, and as he closed his eyes to thank God he felt tears robbed of their warmth spill down his face. He only wished it didn't mean losing sight of his friend's face as well, but he couldn't loose one without the other, and blessings came with sacrifices.

He couldn't stay here. He knew that really. But right now, he just really didn't want to get up. He wanted to stay here forever, refusing to go on. He wanted to stay where he'd fallen and die in the ice. Like he was supposed to.

But it wasn't up to him. His team was still out there somewhere and he couldn't just leave them without knowing if they would be alright without him. And if he absolutely had to get up, he wasn't leaving Bucky behind. So he held his friend closer, steeled his reluctant body, and, one foot at a time, he stood. He took a moment to feel the loss of his choice to stay, grieving the loss of his freedom. Then he started walking.

He woke with a start and sat up in bed. The faintest of pre-dawn light was filtering through his curtains and he shuddered in spite of the warmth. He shuddered at the disturbing implications of the dream. It didn't take any deciphering. He didn't need to be Jung. And survivor's guilt wasn't exactly uncommon among soldiers, but to know he harboured a secret wish to be dead? To have it held up in front of him like that when he couldn't turn away? To know beyond a shadow of a doubt that somewhere inside a part of him was so defeated? He didn't like to think of himself that way.

He remembered what Dr Erskine had asked of him the night before the procedure. He'd asked Steve, no matter what happened, not to change who he was. The very last thing he'd done as he'd lain dying was to reinforce that request. After all he'd been though; the childhood sickness, the beatings, the loss of his parents, the loss of Erskine and the following months of humiliation…losing Bucky…He'd made it through all that without feeling defeated. Weak, resigned, pained, yes. Defeated? No. But finally it'd got him, and he couldn't help feeling like he was, in part, breaking his vow to the good doctor. He wasn't even sure who he was anymore, which was ironic because the entire planet knew his name. Or at least, they knew his handle. If only he had a starting point for integrating the past and the present, maybe he could set about finding himself where they met. But how was he supposed to do that?

Well, it was no good sitting here over-thinking things. He threw back the covers and started his day an hour earlier than usual. By the time the sun had made a full appearance, he was sitting in his window watching the city wake up far below. It helped to see them from up here, the innocent lives he and his teammates had fought so hard to protect. It made him feel like he was still protecting them in that moment, even though all he was doing was sitting in his government-funded flat. And it reminded him that some things truly did stay the same. Sure, the people of New York had changed, their city had changed, their country, their world, and hell, in light of recent events their universe had changed. But they were still people. They were still worth fighting for and looking after. He was still their soldier. He relaxed, leaning his head against the glass. He had to be okay for them.

He heard the faint hum of a high-speed plane high overhead and automatically tried but failed to identify it. He really shouldn't try anymore, it only showed him how little he knew about this time. A few moments later, however, he was drawn from his reverie by the sound of something heavy landing and grinding across the roof and, apparently, coming to a stop. He leapt up from the window, a hundred things running through his head. Was it possible he'd attracted enemies he should be taking into consideration? Always possible; err on the side of caution. Only S.H.I.E.L.D and certain spontaeneously visiting avengers were supposed to know he was here; did that noise have anything to do with him at all? A thought struck him. Was that Tony doing a poorly executed emergency landing? He might've taken the suit on another experimental night flight. He could be hurt.

He ducked into his bedroom, pulling open the door to the obnoxious walk-in wardrobe S.H.I.E.L.D had inexplicably supplied him with and withdrawing his shield from the wall, sliding it securely onto his arm. Already he felt prepared for whatever was up there and, bare foot, he went investigating.

It was windy up here today, and the first thing he registered was the small white parachute billowing a short distance from the door, alternately filling with and releasing the cold air. But attached to the parachute, lying at the foot of the wall on the left, was a large metal crate. He studied it a moment, holding his shield up protectively. A glance at the sky told him the plane was long gone, leaving no vapour trail. He crept towards the object.

What was he to make of this? Was this common practice? Was he going to open it up to find it full of advertisements and information about various companies and businesses just like those people calling him up to ask him if he wanted double-glazing? If so, it was an excessive size. As he got closer, he peered round its side looking for some clue as to its contents, and was faced with a logo: Stark Industries. He relaxed a fraction. Tony had sent him something. Unless it was someone pretending to be Tony. But then if there was any sinister intent, the people who'd sent it clearly knew where he lived, they could've just dropped an explosive that detonated on impact, there'd be no need for all this. And one thing was obvious, if he wanted to find out what was in it, he was going to have to take it inside. He gathered up the parachute and wound it into a thick nylon rope, then, pulling it over his shoulder, he turned and started dragging the reluctant dead weight indoors.

A short while later, he stood looking at the crate in the centre of his living room. He didn't have a crowbar or anything. He could see no seams indicating the edge of a lid or a weak spot. The only mark on its surface was the raised Stark logo, gleaming smugly on its side. He crouched before it, looking at the raised letters. They seemed odd for some reason. He ran his fingers round its edges and paused; there was the slightest movement under the pressure. He pressed it and felt a click, and when he let go, the logo split and parted, revealing a small panel underneath with an image of a thumb print on it. He did the only logical thing, and pressed his thumb on it. He jumped as the crate emitted a harsh hissing sound, and took a step back as the lid popped. Finally, he lifted the lid to see what was inside.

It was stuff. It was all wrapped up in cushioning covers made of some strange translucent material with a weird texture, but he could still clearly see that it was some sort of stuff. On top were bits and pieces of silver metal and black plastic which he could make no sense of. There was a little box which he opened to find contained a stick-like object about the size of half a finger, with a cap you could remove from the end, showing a small metal projection. What the hell had Stark sent him? And how was he supposed to do anything with all this?

The doorbell rang and he flinched. He stood up and with a touch of trepidation, went to open it. The corridor outside was filled with, quick headcount, six men. The first beamed at him. "Good morning, Mr Rogers. Mr Stark sent us to set things up for you. He hopes you enjoy his care package."

"Wh-_Care package?_" He looked back at the crate. "Is that what it is?"

"May we come in?"

"Oh! Uh, yeah, sure…I guess."

The men filed in and immediately started removing things from the crate. The first man seemed to be the boss, and, looking around the flat, started telling the others where they were to set things up. Steve watched in amazement as they started fitting things together and expanding them into new and just as baffling shapes. Two of them pulled apart two bars and fitted them to a flat panel a third man had unfolded, then they started fitting it by mysterious means to the wall, where it was recognisable as a television screen. "What is all this?" Another two men seemed to be making another one and carrying it into his bedroom. "Wait a minute, how many of these things are there?"

"Tvs?" enquired the first man. "Four."

"Four?!"

"Living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen."

"But that's ridiculous, surely one's enough! I'm not even sure I need that one," he muttered, stunned. "Who needs four?"

"Ah." The first man reached into the crate and picked out the little stick, pulled off the cap and plugged it into the side of the screen on the living room wall. "Mr Stark requested you see this, why don't you watch while we get you sorted?"

Steve didn't see that he had a choice, the men were all busy doing God knew what throughout his flat. Tony's face appeared on the screen. "No, you need four," he said sternly, his 'response' to Steve's question almost but not quite perfect. "Don't worry, old man, everything comes with instruction manuals. You've got 362 channels, high speed internet and Bluetooth, most of it's voice activated, and this little device has a selection of films, tv, games and music. My guys will talk you through all the boring stuff like how to use it. You might think you've got nothing better to do than walk around and destroy gym equipment but the way I see it you've got the most to do, so get crackin' and get up to speed with what you napped through. Don't even think about sending any of it back; it's a gift and I'd be extremely offended. There would be vengeance. You have been warned. Ciao, Cap!" He saluted and vanished.

Steve dropped onto his sofa, and watched helplessly as the Stark invasion transformed his apartment with unfathomable technology. 362 channels? Internet? Blue teeth? What on earth was he supposed to do with all this? Apparently he was thinking too loudly because a moment later the boss came over and let out a torrent of vaguely understandable instructions on what was what and how to access it. All these screens seemed to be his tv, computer, video-telephone and games console all at once. The vast majority of things they did, he'd never even heard of. And there were more, smaller, portable hand-held devices which did similar things, including a minute phone he could clip on his ear. It took almost an hour to rapidly go through it all. The boss seemed confident that everything was clear and simple. He thought he had a grasp on it but he couldn't shake the feeling that this was all going to go disastrously wrong and leave him with a place full of junk he couldn't use. Finally, they seemed finished and the boss pointed at the living room screen, "Our number's in the system, should you need us for anything. Have a nice day, sir."

"Um," he watched them leave, "thanks." At the last minute, one of the men came back and hovered in the door. Steve could see a hand tugging at the guy's sleeve, and hear a hushed voice hissing at him to come away, but the man ignored it.

"Uh, Captain Rogers, sir?"

"Yeah?"

"I know this is really inappropriate but…my son is such a huge fan. You're his all-time favourite hero. It would mean so much to him…"

Steve smiled at the guy's nerves and nodded. "You want me to sign something?"

"Only if it's not too much trouble," he hastened to add, coming back in. "I brought this, just in case…" From his shirt pocket he withdrew a folded newspaper clipping and handed it to Steve.

Steve unfolded it to find a black and white photograph of himself above an article describing his part in the defence of New York. He took it over to his desk to find a pen. "What's your son's name?"

The man lit up. "Jason, his name's Jason." Steve signed the clipping and handed it back to the man, who took it from him with reverence. "Oh sir, thank you so much. This is going to mean so much to him, you have no idea. You see, we were there that day, and you…well, thank you."

Steve felt his heart swell. "You're very welcome, sir."

"Thank you," he said again, backing out of the flat with a huge grin plastered across his face. "Thanks, bye."

Steve held up a hand in farewell, trying not to laugh. Then he turned back to his flat, and remembered exactly what had been done to it. He shook his head at Stark thinking he needed all this. The man was completely disconnected from reality. He clearly meant well, but did he realise that he'd just turned Steve's place of residence into a flashing billboard of the future he was trapped in? There'd be no getting away from it now, not for a single moment of the day. He was probably going to end up spending even more time with the fellas at the park. He moved back over to the crate and peered in. There was still plenty of stuff; there were packets and boxes of food which Stark apparently felt it was very important he try. Most things seemed to be at least 85% sugar. But then there was a flash of hot recognition. He reached in and lifted the object out. It was his shield. His original shield. The rectangular one, with all the same dents and scars he remembered. How could it be here? After almost 70 years, it was here in his hands again. True, to him it felt like a mere fraction of that time but that didn't change the facts. He ran a hand over it fondly. Howard Stark. Stark must've kept it all this time. He felt a rush of affection and sadness that the man wasn't still around.

He put the shield aside and dug deeper into the box. He started pulling out packages of books, most with unfamiliar titles and authors. Unwrapping them and flicking through their pages he realised they were organised in decades, starting in the forties, a few of which he had read, and ending this year. They actually formed the bulk of the crate's overall contents, there were so many of them. He smiled to realise that it'd probably taken a concerted effort from Stark not to supply them all on his little stick device. (It'd already been explained to him how he could download books from the internet onto a tablet he'd been given.) It felt nice to hold them and leaf through them. He'd really missed reading over the last few months. He'd been in bookstores and tried to find some to start a modest collection but there'd just been such an overwhelming tidal wave of them he'd ended up leaving without a single purchase.

Under the books, were LPs, which he took out and poured over. He laughed. They were all wartime records. He knew them. He could remember the last times and places he'd heard these songs, who he'd been with, what they'd talked about. He looked in the crate for the record player but it wasn't there and, scanning round, he spotted it already set up in the corner. He picked out a record, slipped it out of its cover and put it in the player. He set the needle lightly in place. This player was a little different from the ones he knew but he soon got the record spinning and the sound of his life filled up his apartment. The smile widened and he could help laughing at the pure joy of the thing. He'd truly thought things like this were permanently lost. He almost couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Suddenly excited to see what remained at the bottom of the crate, he all but ran back over to it and reached in. The first thing he pulled out and unwrapped turned out to be a little doll of a Hawaiian hula dancer with shaking hips. It had a small tag attached which read: 'Everyone needs clutter. Mazal tov.' He rolled his eyes and tossed it on the sofa to deal with later. The final items seemed to be framed pictures. He unwrapped them and turned them over. He sank slowly onto the sofa cushions. The monochrome faces of his comrades beamed up at him. He slumped, resting his head on one hand, his breath leaving him in a rush.

They were all here. The men and himself all standing in front of a plane, arms around each others' shoulders. He remembered when this was taken. It'd only been about five months ago for him. He could feel them standing around him, hear them chatting and laughing until the poor photographer had told them all to shut up. Pressure gathered in his head and his throat and jaw began to ache. There was another picture of Howard Stark and Dr Abraham Erskine in the lab, in front of their machine. Stark had that big self-confident grin and that unbeatable spark in his eyes, and Erskine… His face was as warm and caring as he'd remembered it. There was such a love in those eyes; a paternal love that reached out and wrapped its arms around all mankind. A wisdom. A steadfast belief that great men would prevail, and the midguided would fall back into the darkness from which they'd come. Everything Steve fought for was there in that face.

A drop of water splashed against the glass frame. He quickly brushed the back of his hand over his eyes but it was too late. He felt himself collapse and curl up over the pictures in his lap, his head in his hands, resting on his knees. Quietly, under the sound of the music, he let out a sob and the tears flowed warmly into his palms and down his wrists. He was in that state for what felt like a long time. Once the floodgates had opened he found himself a gushing wound of a man and all he could do was let it all come out. Eventually, though, he uncurled and sank back, tilting his head back wearily. He kept a hand over his eyes as though to shield his grief from an absent audience, letting his breathing ease back into a smooth, regular rhythm. The last song on the record ended and the silence brought him round. He leaned forward, brushed his hands over his face one last time, and got up to turn the record over.

He spent the rest of the day listening to his new record collection, and started reading the chronologically earliest book that he hadn't already read. He tried some of the food, and suddenly felt like he understood the man who'd sent them a whole lot more. Apparently Tony was what happened when you gave a kid a genius IQ, a mountain of money and an endless supply of sugar. He kept busy into the evening when it suddenly occurred to him he hadn't eaten anything all day so he stopped to make himself something. Shortly before he brought it back to the living room, the record ended and the place fell into silence. He came back and set his food down on the coffee table then moved to change the record, but paused a moment. That big screen on the wall was looking at him. For all that man had gone on about all the things it could do, he still felt like he had little real idea about what it could bring to his life. They had mentioned films though, like he had the potential for a cinema right here in the flat. He wondered if that was any good. He sat down.

"Television, on," he commanded clearly, and with just a touch of scepticism. The screen came to life, displaying him a list of services. 'Films' was among them, but there was quite a selection. He shrugged to himself, picking up his plate. "News." A new list appeared of all his news channels. He picked one at random, "CNN." The screen burst into activity, with bright colour pictures of a storm system hitting the southern states and the voice of a woman telling him about the damage and predicting its path. He watched for a moment, then said: "Documentaries." A new list. One caught his eye. "History Channel." The screen started showing him new footage. He blinked, and slowly sat back to eat. After a few minutes he gave his place one last appraising glance and nodded. "Okay," he told the screen, conversationally, "This isn't so bad."

The end.

Author's note: I don't know if there are beech trees in Central Park. I also don't know if New Yorkers get bugged about double-glazing, that's just what we get hounded about round here.


End file.
